In Grace He Rests
by Nel
Summary: Last time Nakago died, he was a lonely, miserable soul at war. The second life has been so different, and the second death will be likewise.


In Grace He Rests

He found it difficult to breathe, or even open his eyes, though his mind was clear as it had been all his long, rather eventful life. Each inhalation was a labor of its own, and he contemplated briefly just holding his breath to see if he could trick his body into giving up. But he knew it wouldn't, not until she was there. Not until his whole self, body, mind, and soul were ready. He had been gifted with more life, more joy, more wisdom than most, and could not complain about what the gods had done for him. Evil had touched his life, and more than once, but he had survived. He knew that the one who created him and all of them was never far, fighting the chaos together with them, whispering comfort when he hadn't the strength to continue. But there was no whispering now; he could hear her calling him now. But he had to wait.

His grandchildren where all around him, and the children of the ones who had unofficially adopted him because of his incredible daughter and son-in-law, and wife. Dozens of them. His son-in-law's hand rested on his gently, a reminder that they were all still there. They had come to an understanding, finally. He had been good to his daughter, had always cared for her and supported her, even if he had been an impudent little twit most of his life. And the man certainly showed all the love he had to his children, Nakago's grand-children, all four of them. Kaena had grown up alone, but she wanted more for her children; she wanted them to have brothers and sisters to stand by them. She wanted Taka's nieces and nephews to have friends to play with, to love, even though they were all scattered around the world by now—Japan, America, Australia, Italy, Britain... how had he come about such a massive family? He was surely blessed.

He knew it was because of his wife, in the end. It was his wife who, despite miscarriage after miscarriage, had finally born him his brilliant daughter. It was his wife who carefully cultivated her friendships like a lovely garden, and taught him to tend to his own relationships with such care. He was a stubborn, terrible student, but he had learned. His wife had shattered the hardness of his heart, had weaseled her way inside, had forced it to grow and grow. His daughter had broken it wide open, leaving him vulnerable and terrified. His grandchildren didn't even have to try. To them, he was papi, he was grampy, he was grumpy grampy, whose lap they had jumped on, whose huge hand they had taken with tiny fingers to read them books, to crouch in a fort, to remember what it was like to be innocent. It was his grandchildren who had finally healed him.

And yet there were so many regrets. He had caused such pain in his life, in his lives, really. He had tried his best to make up for the evil he had committed in one life by the justice he committed in another, but in the end his heart and been bruised and darkened and his justice had been harder than it should have been, his words had been quicker to cut, his hands eager to crush evil without nuance, without understanding, without compassion. But where he had failed, his daughter and son-in-law had succeeded. Where he would hurt, would kill to stop evil, they would love evil back to life. He remembered the young criminal Kaena had ultimately come to know, because he mugged her on the street. Nakago had wanted to stomp the boy. Kaena had looked deeply into him, seen the twists of fate which had so scarred him, and reached into him to heal his wounds until he learned to love too. It was a habit she could only have learned from her mother, and her encounter with the great divine. She certainly didn't learn it from him. He had been much harder in his life than she, and he understood now the weight of it. Justice could avenge, but vengeance was not justice, a lesson never learned in one life, and learned far too late in another. He regretted much.

And despite it, he had been gifted beyond measure with love and joy and work, and often more work, which brought more love, more joy. Politics had led him to persecute crime; his family taught him to forgive it. It was love, at last, which burrowed into him and taught him how to live well. But so late. Why was he such a slow learner at this, when he learned so quickly everything else? He did not know, but it seemed to be his lot.

God, it hurt to breathe so. He tried to lift his arms, to open his mouth, to move, but his body was giving up. He could feel his self slipping away from this realm, could feel his body's unwillingness to go on. But she wasn't there yet. He couldn't leave without saying goodbye. She had been on a work trip somewhere—he couldn't remember where—South America? Research, they'd said. They had called her about the stroke, and she had tried to come as quickly as possible, but there were no flights from the remote location, and she had practically had to hitchhike to get back to civilization. And then her flight had been delayed in a layover. They had held the phone to his ear and she had sobbed and told him to wait, had said she loved him. How could he not wait? She would come, and he would open his eyes long enough to look at his child, his mirror in so many ways, but so much better, so much clearer than him. He would not leave without saying goodbye.

And yet, he longed to leave. Somewhere nearby, he could feel a gentle caress on his forehead, but nobody was touching his forehead. It was Miaka, his wife. She had died six years ago. He hadn't thought he could go on without her, and for a time, he feared his heart would seal again, never to feel such pain as when the other half of his soul had been ripped from him too soon. But then there were his grandchildren, some of whom were too young to understand, but who had crawled up into his lap and hugged him lovingly as silent tears streamed down his cheeks. And his heart had remained soft and open, because Yuuki and Tamara and Hiro and Sakura had crept inside and made it a home. But he could feel her nearby, his lovely wife, who was as beautiful the day she had died as the day they first met, except wiser, better, his lifelong friend, who never let him be less than what she thought he could be. He missed her every day. He could almost smell her hair now. How much longer need he wait for her?

There was commotion suddenly—he could hear the door thrown open, and cheers, as four teenagers leapt up. Chairs scraped, and Taka's hand moved from its resting place atop his own. He inhaled deeply for the first time in hours, and mustered the last of his waning strength to open his eyes.

"Papa," she whispered, kneeling beside his deathbed, taking his hand. He could feel her tears against his paper thin skin and she cried. "Daddy. I'm here. I made it."

His mouth twitched up, in a smile, though most people would mistake it for a smirk. "And I," he whispered.

"Thank you for waiting for me," her eyes, the same blue as his own, searched his face. "Are you in pain?"

Yes, God. "No," he smiled at her. He wanted to touch her hair, to hold her tightly, but there was no strength left in him. He had no time now for shyness or fear. He had to tell her, he had to speak the words which were so hard for him to make known. But he had nothing to lose now, so he took another rasping, rattling breath and continued. "I love you, Kaena. You are my light. I'm proud of you."

"I love you, daddy," her voice shook, and tears fell from her eyes in twin rivers across her curving cheek, now softer, now slightly wrinkled with age and life and laughter. "I love you so much. And I'm proud of you. Thank you for everything you have given me. I wouldn't be who I am without you, and mama."

He wanted to say so much more. He wanted to tell her how it was she who had been the gift, who had changed him, but he hadn't another word left in his body. He closed his eyes, and just breathed, in, out, slowly. It really didn't hurt anymore, he realized. He could feel little, though the steady pressure of his daughter, his son, his children, gathered around him, touching him and praying and crying over him. He drew a breath. Let it out. And then... nothing.

He looked around the white room. He was standing, and his body felt strong again. He was momentarily confused. Nakago looked down at his hands—they were strong and firm, as they had been when he was a young man. He had been to this place before. The memory hit him so suddenly, so vividly, that he almost felt the need to sit down. Not that he could. There was really no floor here, or ceiling, or anything. And all at once, she appeared, a woman who looked like everyone he had ever loved, with hair like his mother, a face like his daughter, eyes like his wife, and so many more features all blended into one general impression of joy.

"You remember this place," her voice observed. The sound of it was deep and musical, and resonate. It thundered through his soul and knew all his secret places.

"You know I do," he remarked dryly. He had stood here once before, after his first death at the hand of the man who was known as Tamahome, at the time. And she had weighed him, and he had known his every sin and failure, and he had felt every wound reopened anew. But at that time she had looked at him with contemplation. "You're not done yet," she had said, and smiled. And then he remembered nothing more, until he was a boy growing up in Germany, then Tokyo. All of those moments began to flash before him, and he cringed remembering fistfights, and violence, and harsh words. His heart was heavy with the sorrow of all of the pain he had ever known or caused, and he felt utterly convicted. How could he have thought he lived well, when he had failed to love so many?

"We met under very different circumstances last time," she smiled and circled him. "I recall you were quite angry. You aren't angry anymore."

"No," he agreed.

"And you were very scared. You're not scared anymore."

"No," he admitted, though he was a bit lonely here, for those he had left behind. He could feel them somewhere in his mind, weeping over him, and he regretted deeply their pain.

"What have you learned?"

How could he sum up what he had learned to her? Why should she ask? She knew, of course. He had learned to lead, to forgive, to grow, to open his heart and his mind, to seek justice, to learn humility. He had learned everything he thought there was to learn. He knew it, even if he struggled to practice it. He knew at once that he did not deserve this paradise of hers, which stood before him now.

"But how did you come to pursue those things?" she asked, reading his thoughts like an open book. "How did you learn to lead selflessly, to forgive wrongs, and to yearn for justice?"

"I learned . . . to love others, more than myself," he said.

"Then you have learned to love how I love you. You didn't believe me before, how I could love you. You hated me. You were angry with me."

"So you sent me back to learn who you are?"

"No, silly," she smiled quirkily, all Miaka right then. "I sent you back to learn who you are. It was in learning to love that you learned the power that you wield, to understand how you and I fit together, and how you and all the world fit together. All people go through their lives to learn how to love well, because it is only in learning how to love well that they can truly accept my love. You didn't trust that I could love you, because you didn't know how to love beyond yourself. But now you know."

The weight of his mistakes crushed him. "But," he cursed his voice for shaking. "I have not lived well enough."

"Your job was not to live well, only to learn how much I love you. You should now understand that I love you enough to accept your errors, to forgive the evil you committed. Do you understand?"

He didn't. He couldn't. How could She, this goddess, look upon all of his failure and still love him? But he understood deeply how, when he thought of his wife, and her annoying habits that drove him crazy sometimes. She was not perfect, but he loved her more than himself. His daughter had failed in many ways, herself and her own children, and yet he loved her. And here was his heavenly mother looking at him not with judgment, but with the deepest acceptance. And he wept openly in front of her.

"You have been a faithful servant. You have done well, my beloved. You were always one of my favorites, you know. I don't have to send many back again, and pull so many strings of fate on top of it to teach them the lessons of love, but I feel this has been a worthwhile labor. And now I think you're ready. Will you come?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Of course. There is always a choice. Do you want to go back, live again?"

He thought of his life, of his family, his work, his learning. Would he change it? Would he learn those lessons again? He wasn't sure he could love anyone as much as he loved his wife, his daughter, his grandchildren and all the others who had dared to love him. No, he decided, he would not go back. He was finished.

"Good. There's somebody who has been waiting a long while for you, getting on my last nerve, I must say," the goddess smiled and took his hand. His legs moved, but he wasn't really walking. It was like he floated in, over, on, and under all worlds. Nakago watched below, as a hundred dimensions and worlds and a billion billion souls moved about below. His mind nearly exploded at the thought of Her mind holding it all.

"There," she nodded.

Nakago squinted, and saw a small, shapely figure in a field ahead. He couldn't tell what she was doing, but she moved lightly, with the vigor of all her youth restored. He would know that petite, round figure anywhere. She turned. Her hazel eyes met his, and crinkled with joy. She waved.

"Go on," she said. "Meet her. Meet eternity."

Nakago glanced once more at the goddess, and then he floated, bounded, sprinted toward her. She ran to meet him, jumped with all of her soft bulk right into him, and sent him sprawling. The ground, and his wife, felt very real. She smiled down at him, and touched his face, smooth and young again. Restored. All restored. And he stared at her, and took her head in his hands, drinking her in. It had been so very long. He felt a stubborn lump in his throat. What was this?

"Joy," the goddess whispered, and then she was gone, somewhere else, to tend her children.

He pulled her to the ground and rolled over her. "I've missed you," he whispered, and kissed her. Her mouth was sweet and soft as he remembered. Sweeter. Softer.

"It took you long enough," she laughed. "Welcome home, my love. Welcome home."

He kissed her again, and again, and they rolled around and laughed and whatever weights and inhibitions that had bound him broke away, and he didn't care because he knew nothing could ever hurt him here. A soft breeze fluttered through his hair, and he smiled. He was home at last.


End file.
